Twice today my friend Ray Atkins has managed to tease long-forgotten memories, some 65 and 70 years old, out of the ancient neural connections of my septuagenarian brain.
First he posted this picture to Facebook with a simple label:
A quarter for your thoughts...
His two-bits of brains was enough.
Raymond Atkins is a fine novelist and essayist who, between laughs, has been known to sneak in a few thoughts on weighty matters --- democracy, human decency, the meaning of life. But his first literary contribution to my life today was to remind me of pork brains.
So, lest that recovered neural connection disappear again, I wrote it down:
First, brains.
I’ve never been able to eat brains.
I first heard of pork brains as a culinary treat when I was thirteen years old, working at the Red Dot Supermarket in Ellijay, Georgia—bagging groceries, putting eggs in cartons, and stocking shelves.
There was a fellow who showed up like clockwork in a beat-up pickup with his large wife and several miniature versions of himself for his monthly provisions. And part of those provisions was always a whole case of canned pork brains.
He was short, heavy, and bald. I thought he looked downright porcine.
Now, even then I knew there could be no real connection between his diet and his appearance—except maybe that second adjective.
But still, I’ve never been able to eat brains.
Maybe you think Ray had done enough for one day.
Nope.
Later he turned his formidable literary talents to the subject of inflation, and right off I got sidetracked by his scholarly observation:
The word “inflation” comes from the Latin word “inflāre.” Its original meaning referred to the filling of a pig’s bladder with air, although why the ancient Romans felt the need to blow up pig’s bladders with air has been lost to antiquity.
Democracy. Human decency. The meaning of life.
Pig bladders.
And just like that, Ray teased out another image —this one even older and considerably hazier.
So I wrote it down too so that future generations can enjoy the image:
Now, bladders.
Well, Ray has once again tickled out of my cranial folds and wrinkles a long-forgotten, hazy image—a hog bladder.
When I was about eight or nine, my buddy Herbert Leach and I attended the slaughter of a gigantic hog not far from our parsonage on South Ninth Street in Griffin, Georgia.
At some point in the process, the monster was lying on the ground—rather than suspended from the tree limb as he had been, or would be—and the more experienced Herbert demonstrated, to my amazement, that one could produce a prodigious fountain by pressing one's shoe against the hog's bladder.
That elicited a reprimand from the adults nearby, but the experience was well worth it.
So there you go, Ray.
A day's work for a distinguished Southern man of letters: from the recesses of my aging brain you have hoisted a case of pork brains and a hog bladder.
Literature is a wonderful thing.
Lordy, what'll you post tomorrow?
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| Pig bladders for sale in Peking, 1917-1919. |
